One Day's Work Thanksgiving Poem by Robert Rorabeck

When the thunder spark rolls
On its eighteen wheels
You know the hawk
Driving it is the last
Holdout from the
Great confederacy- there’s
The southern cross on his
Grill and here he comes
Cheeks full of chew
With his front set of
Teeth caved in somewhere in the back
And they bring their
Screeching big rigs around
The tent the
Power pistons whirring
And wheeling and
They come like some
Mad procession of
Ancient Titans who’ve
Fled here south to
Enslave us with their work-
And we must open their
Iron jaws to let them
Vomit their North
Carolina loads in piles
In our tents, slaving like
The ancient jews for
These upper middle-class
Pharaohs we create
Strange conflagrations of
Christmas trees as the
Mexicans call me “muy fuerte”
And band about my
Determined arms to
Stay alive in the flood of
Green Noel tells his
Novia Carmen for me to
Call myself yo soy un caberon
Just to be sure that I am
The bad-ass I’ve become
Then, after knocking off
Their strange head for security
They follow me blindly
Religious, I think
These Mexicans love
Me, and I am their working
White lord and they are my
Disciples when they come
Together around me and we
Go out ceremoniously
Into the field where
The metal behemoths are
Belching and steaming, clanking
To release the Christmas gorge
Of these centipedal beasts
The southern drivers
Spitting their rebellious
Young boy thoughts against
Our Union work ethics
Still we work it out
Through the day on this
Wednesday when I am
Made a saint of the
Work and see strange
Visions from the inside the bed
Of a semi truck
Moving backwards to show
Me the changing vision
Of latening evening shrub
Pines which is
Beyond the words in codex
Holy and wild on
The kitty-corner wood
Island between the
Stop and go red light and green
Yellow light metallic road sloth
And glut when by seven our
Day is thankfully over though
The Mexicans don’t want to leave
Their new Carmen/ we’ve
Fed upwards of 700 trees
Their throats cut and bleeding sap
To sacrifice in
Middle-class homes
The sangre dieses our
Father son and holy ghost tents
Which blaze rebirthing when
The sun goes down
And the Titans rest
In the evening empty field for
4 to 5 hours before
Lugging their half full guts
In their silverick ceremony
South to Miami
Where the good old southern boys
The redneck beatniks
Complain that this is
Too far south for their
Metric rhymes- its
The new mexico pilgrim meter
Out by the brave central American
conquistadors and tire-sailing
Cubanos, but even the drivers
Have to obey the glut and glory
Of their beastly
Berth this Wednesday
The 24th when tomorrow
The sacrifice will start all again
Over for the metal continues
Rolling and the forests strangely
Moving into middle-class
Strongholds on
Thanksgiving.